


Pheremones

by HircumIrrumator



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: A few references to Yondu's past :(, A-Chiltarian Kraglin, Anal Sex, Buglin, Does venom count as drugging? Uh, Earth-616, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt No Comfort, I'm a horrible person, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oviposition, pheremones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 07:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17914862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HircumIrrumator/pseuds/HircumIrrumator
Summary: Yondu is going to wake up, and he's going to find Kraglin there, and he'll know,he'll know, and he's going toremember, and he'll bepissed.I.E. lots of instinct based smut and alien biology. Be warned.





	Pheremones

**Author's Note:**

> TW  
> -Heavily implied drugging (venom)  
> -Extremely dubious consent (pheromones/drugging)  
> -Vomit mention  
> -Anxiety

Kraglin kicks off his sheet. Stares at the roof of his bunk.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Rolls to his other side. Holds his breath. Open his eyes back up.

“Dammit.”

He sucks in another breath, chest tight.

He can’t understand why it’s happening so soon. It should be every six standard months, like clockwork. He could even calculate the exact hour they peak and send him reeling. Which is critical, because he always spends the few hours leading up completely smashed.

 

Kraglin recalls Yondu’s raised brow at the request to end his shift early. Had he noticed? Kraglin hadn’t been sweating, had he?

He is sure of one thing, however: Yondu’s to blame. If Kraglin spends too much time in close proximity to him, his biology blows a gasket.

He groans.

Kraglin rolls to his other side once more and moves to stand. When the motion merely causes his vision to go black for a moment and results in his headache worsening, he moves for the cooler positioned under his bunk instead, pulling a bottle of Contraxian whiskey out.

He tries not to think about Yondu. Tries not to dream about him. A lot of good that does.

There’s no one to blame but himself. No way to excuse his base desires, and it scares him, because some primitive corner of his mind wants more than just a metaphysical fuck.

 

Kraglin wakes up the next morning with a hoarse cry and a parched mouth. He immediately leans over the side of his bunk and wretches.

 

“You sick or somthin’?”

Kraglin is wringing his damp hands against his yellow and black shirt, fidgeting, ripe with trepidation. 

Originally, he had called Kraglin into his cabin to look over a couple of data logs and make plans for the ship’s next stop planet side. They hadn’t gotten very far into that before Kraglin’s squirming had become too much of a distraction.

“Didn’t sleep.” Kraglin continues tugging at the soggy collar of his shirt. “Jes’ tired.”

Yondu waits for Kraglin to elaborate, hands resting atop the arms of his chair as he observes him, rapt. His quarters are quiet, all but for the ever present hum of energy surging through the walls of the Eclector. All but for the creaking of Kraglin’s chair as he shifts.

Something is different about Kraglin. Or, well, not different- complemented. Accented.

Beyond Kraglin’s obvious distress, there’s the anomalous odor that Kraglin is ensconced by, a sort of wild musk beneath his anxiety. Kraglin’s sensitivity to light, and, chiefly, Kraglin’s agitated state only tacks onto the sight.

“Heard you'se was real good at mappin’ star charts,” Yondu says.

He’d known this through observation, of course, but better to let Kraglin think he’s discovered the fact through idle conversation with a mutual. No need to reveal just how closely he’s examined Kraglin’s person and private domicile- the drawers and closets of his mind and quarters alike.

Kraglin looks haltingly towards but not quite at him. “Since I was a youngun, sir.”

“No. Just years of practice.” Kraglin leans backwards, drumming his fingers on the leather arm. “Thinking of taking up a new hobby?” Kraglin asks, punctuated by a brief interlocking of eyes before he looks back towards the windows.

“Wouldn’t hardly know where to begin.”

“I’d offer to teach ya. If you was actually interested. Which you ain’t. Computers do it all for ya anyway.”

“'Jes curious.”

Kraglin tips his chin up and finally looks Yondu squarely in the eyes. “Charting ain’t that complicated.”

“Neither are Ravagers.”

Kraglin grimaces and rakes fingers through his hair (setae, Yondu’s mind supplies), the small readjustment wafting more of that pungent odor towards Yondu. Not at all the usual mix of grease and sweat. “Can ya blame me, considering my day job?”

“Nah. Ya do all the hard work anyways- you alright?”

Kraglin is doubled over in his seat, clutching at his abdomen, jaw lined with tension. “Jus- just gimme a second.”

“Kraggs…”

Kraglin moves to snap back, voice elevated by pain, but goes completely rigid. He yelps, the outburst withering into a strangled whimper and a rictus that puts even Yondu’s resting bitch face to shame. Yondu rises from his chair, strides over and reaches for Kraglin’s shoulder- but the moment the tips of his fingers graze the threadbare shirt, one of Kraglin’s hands, quick as a snake, snares his wrist.

 

“Kraglin.” A warning, accompanied with pursed lips. “Let go.”

 

Kraglin is still doubled over, head hanging between his knees. His arm moves as if of its own autonomy, a distinctly unnatural motion. Yondu feels the icy fingers of dread walk up his spine and over his scalp, because whoever is sitting before him isn’t Kraglin Obfonteri. Not wholly- not the one that Yondu thinks he might have known.

He discards the thought for now and says, “Yer hurting me,” like some idle pleasantry, tone politely requesting that Kraglin not crush his wrist.

Kraglin finally lifts his head, fingers tightening when Yondu tries to withdraw, and looks up at him, expression lax and ineffable. His eyes are wide, wider than they ever had been, with Yondu’s reflection superimposed across the surface.  
Yondu's composure slips a degree when his hand is yanked closer to Kraglin’s mouth. He’s half expecting the man to bite a chunk out of him like some kind of animal when Kraglin decisively tucks his nose into Yondu’s calloused palm.

A guru of olfactory delights himself, he can hardly begrudge Kraglin- if it weren’t his palm; if Kraglin wasn’t holding it captive and shoving his fact into his wrist to lave a tongue across the skin there, now turning darker blue and irritated with friction burn.

Yondu draws a clipped breath and curls his fingers into a fist, and sharply says, “Stop.”

Not just because Kraglin’s nosing is completely inappropriate (which it is) and seems to completely disregard either of their positions (hierarchy wise), but because Yondu is not accustomed to having the rug so pulled out from under him.

 

He is, in some small bit, afraid of Kraglin at that moment.

 

Yondu’s hand shakes slightly as he slips a thumb into Kraglin’s mouth and waits to see if the man will bite down.

It all happens very quickly. Kraglin’s eyes focus and he pitches Yondu’s hand away from him as if it’d burned him, sinking back into the chair with a bewildered look.

“I need to go.”

“Kra-”

“I need- I need ta go.” Kraglin climbs out of his chair, trips, and scrambles for the door, almost ripping the coat hook off the wall in his haste to retrieve his jacket. “Sorry.”

The door latches behind Kraglin.

Yondu remains, standing bewildered in front of Kraglin's chair.

 

He’d been so careful after his first fever; two nauseating night cycles in his early twenties that had come on like a surprise second puberty. It’d quashed his lingering aspirations to join the Nova Corps in any real capacity, so he’d resolved to teaching and consulting on the side. He’d reinforced his prickly exterior, carefully scheduled any necessary medical exams, and prevented anyone from getting too close.

Twelve years, and not one slip up. At least nothing irreparable.

Until now, his impending and too-soon fever hot on his heels as he races to get back to the safety of his quarters. The trip to his cabin is a nightmare, with even the dull overhead lights resulting in a searing bolt of pain behind his eyes, washing out his field of vision with a flash of hot white.

The ache is so acute that he has to bite his own tongue to keep from cussing. There’s a throbbing tug in his abdomen, a vice in his gut, in his groin. A heady fog filling his skull. Everything is too bright, too loud. He’s delirious with pain and anxiety, stretched thin between the two and anchored only by an alien weight coalescing in his gut.

It’s so much worse this time. So much worse since Yondu. And so much sooner. He’s usually only this indisposed a few hours before his peak, but now he’ll be lucky if he makes it to his bunk. Krutack, he has to make it. If he has to stop, if someone stops to help, if someone catches him-

No, he’s almost there. Almost.

The relief he feels when he finally turns into the long corridor that leads to his quarters is short-lived but immense. His little boat on the ocean, a two. A little alcove in the cliff side. Most of all, a place decidedly appropriate for concealing secrets.

Kraglin jogs up to the door and leans down to eye level with the retinal scanner. There’s a moment’s pause after it scans, internal locks struggling to disengage.

Kraglin gets the door open and steps inside. He rushes inside, locks the door, and starts for the bedroom, a sheen of sweat already pulling setae flat to his forehead and sticking his shirt to his chest and back.

 

There isn’t anything atypical about the door to the first mate’s quarters. Most rooms on the Eclector are different, twisting and curling in on themselves. Corridors lead off in unexpected directions, control rooms being nearly indistinguishable from storage closets, what with doors remaining unmarked. It’s partly a tactic used in the event of invaders and partly due to the fact that the entire ship is comprised of bits and pieces of a little bit of everything ranging from M-Ship paneling to the wiring of even the smallest devices, making the ship true to it’s namesake.

The corridor around him is silent he approaches. Lights flicker overhead. He knocks, and when there’s no answer, tries the door. Finding the door locked, he grunts and punches in the override code.

He grumbles, stepping in through the threshold and glancing around.

“Kraglin?”

Still no answer.

Yondu finds the living room in its standard state of disarray. The bottle of whiskey that Yondu had given Kraglin sits on a rickety table, seal intact. Yondu clucks his tongue and resists relocating the drink. He’ll have to remember to crack the seal himself, if Kraglin’s going to be so modest about it. Perhaps for the best- now he can relish firsthand the man’s indignation over being spoiled so, and being maneuvered into a position to either accept his gift or stuff it.

If he can find him.

Yondu calls Kraglin’s name again as he starts further into the space, floor paneling complaining under the heels of boots. He wants to make himself known. Kraglin responds poorly to surprises.

Yondu pauses and angles his head.

It’s the softest noise, almost imperceptible: A muffled whimper that could have been the product of pain as much as pleasure. It’s coming from the bedroom. Could just be a shit dream. But when Yondu reaches the doorway, he doesn’t find Kraglin asleep at all.

By now, Yondu’s eyes have adjusted marginally to the dark, enough that he can see Kraglin turn to face him where he’s writhing in his bunk and tangled, evidently naked, in a ratty quilt. The small room is rank with musk, distress, and precum. Yondu wrinkles his nose and tries the light, but nothing happens. Must have thrown the breaker switches.

“Kraglin,” he says a third time.

Kraglin sits up, head lulling on his neck, shoulders drooping. He’s seen individuals in a similar state... after being drugged out of their minds by a cocktail of propofal and ketamine.

Yondu isn’t expecting a response when Kraglin coughs out his name, locks eyes with him, and says, “…hurts,” without further explanation, voice hoarse as if from shouting.

“Kraggs, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Yondu.” Kraglin shudders and sits up, peering at him from the sleepy slits of his eyes. The corners of his mouth and chin shine in the dull light from the nearby window, and Yondu isn’t so sure it’s saliva. “Yyhh-...”

Kraglin sounds so pitiful that if Yondu were anyone else, he might have been urged to swaddled the miserable man in his arms. 

Yondu steps closer, not quite within Kraglin's reach, and leans down. He can feel the heat of Kraglin’s fever radiating from his body. Yondu reaches for an ankle.

“’S warm,” Yondu whispers to himself, thumb smoothing over the rise of the man’s calfs.

Yondu’s mind entertains the idea of a flu. Eyes locked onto the space where hand meets carapace, he doesn't notice Kraglin's hand move.

Kraglin sets on him, hard fingers in his coat, yanking him downward; Yondu is certain those hands are going to close around his throat. He braces for it, tensing, pursing his lips. But hands don't wrap around his gullet.

“Kraglin,” Yondu tries, voice strained as his coat is tugged and he’s forced closer to the man before him. Nearer to Kraglin's mouth; his teeth.

A low rumble, an ugly sound, articulated and throaty. Yondu swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against a wet mouth.

“Leggo. Lemme help you.”

A second hand drags down his back. Yondu can hear and feel claws snag the leather of his duster. Then something warm, a tongue, up the column of his exposed neck. The bridge of a beaky nose tucked behind his ear and a slow exhale chilling the wet swath of skin below. Then arms, moving, fingers working the top of his coat, fighting to pull it off. A hand, gentle, exploratory, pushing the fabric of Yondu’s scarf to the side, exposing collar bone and part of his shoulder with languid bewilderment.

Like even Kraglin isn’t sure what to do with his catch. He apparently decides quickly enough.

Lips drag across Yondu’s neck, kissing, wide-mouthed motions whose wet sucks parody hands groping inside the cavity of a body- Yondu’s hands plying warm viscera as he searches for a bleeding artery in the back of a stolen M-Ship. It’s the obscene sound of relinquished control just before a bolt of pain, sinking into the junction between his neck and shoulder. A dissipating burn that ebbs into a numb chill. Yondu shudders as another kind of warmth sprouts elsewhere, making his thoughts buzz. The odor of arousal is suffocating now. Slowly, the previous anxiety is leeched from his body until he's docile in Kraglin’s lap, head braced against Kraglin’s shoulder. The ragged sound of his own breathing is profane, but he can’t get enough air. He sucks down ragged gasps against Kraglin’s muggy collar.

“What did you- ” What did you do,

Kraglin.

Kraglin maneuvers his head and aligns their mouths, pressing firmly enough that Yondu can feel teeth behind lips. Then Yondu grunts and opens his mouth, and they kiss. Hands snare his waist as Kraglin’s tongue sweeps across and behind his jagged teeth.

He feels inebriated.

Yondu doesn’t realize he’s being shifted back until his head bumps the wall. Kraglin takes his place above him, crawling up his body and getting back at his mouth and neck, slithering hips sending erratic tremors though Yondu’s overwrought body where they connect. Kraglin’s leaking against his slacks, and Yondu isn’t so different. He’s on fire. His body vibrates, unfurls. His pulse thrums between his ears. Kraglin is a boneless, sinewy thing atop him, impossibly locomotive within the confines of their intimate space as he works himself against Yondu’s hip and intermittently engages their mouths. Not unlike some horrible spider.

Yondu scrabbles at the bunk when he feels himself start to sink into it, startled when he finds the mattress still solid beneath his fingertips. Everything is writhing and moving..

He opens his eyes, searching for visual purchase, something to anchor himself to. Something still and solid, but only finds the two luminous pearls bobbing above him, the coral tapetum lucidum of Kraglin’s eyes redirecting what little light filtered in. 

A hallucination?

Yondu’s transfixed, the loosening of his waistband a distant alteration- the cold air against his naked thighs only pricking at the fringes of his conscious. Unimportant. He feels too loose and overly warm. He’s going to disappear, melt away, with Kraglin’s weight bearing down on him.

No, he thinks, but Kraglin’s already there, bent between his thighs. No.

But he doesn’t say that. Because it isn’t what he wants; not what he needs. He’s burning. He’s going to burn up. A supernova.

Yondu sneers, angry, unreasonably frustrated, and says, “Finish what you started.” Then says it with his body by opening his legs.

“I can’t s-stop.” Kraglin’s voice, tremulous. “I need to-” Kraglin shudders against him and growls into his neck, just as frustrated.

Yondu hisses between his teeth and tries to parse the words. They scatter, elusive. He’s regressed to a simpler language. Disgusting. Yondu doesn’t realize Kraglin slipped a hand between them until he feels the fingers opening him up, lubricated by a viscous fluid of unknown origin. It doesn’t matter. He needs Kraglin, needs-

Yondu can’t see. One of his legs is still tangled in his slacks and briefs, a single sock hastily discarded so that Kraglin could shoulder a knee and get between Yondu’s legs.

What are they doing? What is Kraglin doing?

There’s a sobbed apology and a stream-of-conscious string of expletives. Then Kraglin is mounting him, all the way in with one enthusiastic push and plaintive moan. Yondu’s given little time to adjust to the intrusion, but Kraglin’s impossibly wet and Yondu’s improbably lax. Kraglin’s biology has primed him so thoroughly that Yondu’s only real grief is that Kraglin isn’t fucking him already.

Then, as if divining his thoughts, Kraglin starts driving into him, curled over Yondu’s bowed torso and pumping his hips with possessive abandon, shakily exhaling between the obscene clap of their bodies and Yondu’s own somewhat more reserved grunts. Carnal noise juxtaposed to the sinuous oscillation of damp torsos.

Some part of Yondu’s hind brain has shanghaied his higher function. Yondu isn't necessarily opposed to taking risks, but this is pushing it. Kraglin has already proven that his anatomy is unpredictable, and it’s probably the least sensible thing to do to let Kraglin fuck him without protection. But he’s overwrought with sensation. Suffused with Kraglin’s heady ecstasy. All Yondu wants to do is lock his legs around him and draw him in close as he starts to climax. And he does just that, arching up and howling as he comes.

He’s distantly aware of Kraglin’s abrupt stillness. Very acutely aware of the sudden swell of pressure against his oversensitive prostate. He reflexively tries to bring his knees together and dislodge him, but Kraglin hisses and grabs onto his hips.

“Can’t,” Kraglin warns him.

The sound of their labored breathing. Kraglin’s soft moan above him.

“Not yet,” Kraglin urges, pressing close to relieve the strain on his cock where they’re interlocked. “You feel so good- I’m- I-”  
There’s a pulse of discomfort as something passes between them, from Kraglin and into Yondu. He feels the stretch of it, the hot deluge of fluid that eases its way inside. Followed by another. And another. Another. 

Kraglin chokes out a guttural cry of relief and slumps, breath clipped by the exertion of what’s just transpired. Yondu, too, feels some satiation, underscored by abject horror. Unable to move until Kraglin can withdraw, he’s little choice but to lie limply underneath him, riding a tide of endorphins and waiting for his body to work once more.

He doesn’t know how long they lie there. He drifts, a hand stroking his side and a mouth at his ear, murmuring.

Yondu doesn’t dream.

 

His mind is a mire, and it’s slow work slogging his way back to wakefulness. Kraglin’s still reeling from his dream. What he’d thought was a dream until he opens his eyes and finds himself in an undignified sprawl atop the object of his affections. And surrounded by irrefutable evidence that they had…

Kraglin props himself up on his elbows and gapes. Krutack.

Krutack.

No wonder his body aches. Moreover, the wrenching pain in his gut is miraculously and wholly absent. He tries not to correlate it. Tries, but some base instinct prompts him to dip his head low and press an investigatory palm to Yondu’s abdomen. There it is. He can feel it.

Kraglin bites his lip and rests his forehead on Yondu’s chest, tears brimming. He’s fucked up, royally, but for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel alone- and that, more than anything, makes his heart sink with guilt. He’s playing a game he doesn’t even know the rules for.

Yondu is going to wake up and never belong to himself again. Yondu is going to wake up, and he's going to find Kraglin there, and he'll know, _he'll know_ , and he's going to _remember_ , and he'll be _pissed_. When Yondu begins to rouse, Kraglin holds his breath. Waits.

Terrified.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple of notes.
> 
> If anyone wants to know which Kraglin specifically this is, he's from the comic All-New Guardians of the Galaxy Annual 1.1. It's Earth 616. Everyone else is movie-verse, though.
> 
> Also, yeah, that anatomy is... Completely wrong, lmao. My excuse for Kraglin closing his eyes (which are compound, and shouldn't have eyelids) is that he does close them in the comic when Rocket bashes him. Everything else is unexcused tbh.
> 
> Lastly, this was wrote in... 2017? Just now found it buried in my stuff. Honestly, looking at it now, I think my writing has gotten worse.


End file.
